


It's gonna take more than Band-aids

by Tenoko1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Care-giving, Coda, Episode: s08e21 The Great Escapist, Episode: s08e22 Clip Show, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 08, Wing Grooming, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 08:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16091927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: How Cas found them didn’t matter.Or, well, it didn’t matter when weighed against everything else on Dean’s mind. Battling it out for highest rank on that list were Dean's fear and worry for Cas or all the anger and hurt because of him.Well, he can multi-task while stitching stomach wounds and mending neglected wings.





	It's gonna take more than Band-aids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePlaidFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlaidFox/gifts).



> Commission fic for ThePlaidFox based on a dream she had. Takes place between S8x21-8x22: The Great Escapist and Clip Show.

How Cas found them didn’t matter.

Or, well, it didn’t matter when weighed against everything else on Dean’s mind.

He shook Sam gently, but his baby brother still hissed and flinched away. Dean smiled in apology. “C’mon, champ,” he coaxed. “We’re home.” He cast a glance into the backseat, though, honestly, the sight of Castiel hurt in a visceral way. Would have hurt even had he not been bloodied and beat up. It hurt because when he had a choice, he chose to leave. “You, too, Castiel. Inside.”

Stepping out of the Impala, Dean didn’t bother with getting their bags, rounding the vehicle ready to carry most of Sam’s weight in order to get him in the bunker.

His brother leaned away, brushing off his help with a clumsy pat on his shoulder. “I’m good, Dean.” He looked to Cas who was hanging onto the car door with white knuckles and an ashen face, panting from the exertion of getting out of the vehicle. “He needs you a lot more.”

As if to prove his point and stall all argument, Sam made his way, movements slow and shoulders slumped, but under his own power nonetheless.

Teeth clenched, Dean sucked in a breath and moved to the other side of the car again, looping Cas’ arm over his shoulder and slipping an arm around his waist without asking or even looking at him.

Cas hissed and doubled forward, the familiar wet, tackiness against Dean’s hand reminding him of whatever wound Cas had suffered and not yet healed during the several hours on the road-- most of which had been in silence as both he and Sam kept slipping unconscious.

God, they had such a mess on their hands.

He re-adjusted his grip, more careful this time. “Come on.”

They made it as far as the War Room and map table before Cas seemed to need a break, all but panting as Dean carried most of his weight and dragged him forward. It was convenient, really, because that seemed to be as far as Sam made it, too, hands braced on the glowing surface and head bowed.

Dean eased Cas into a chair, pinning him with a glare. “Stay there.” He flicked his brother a glance. “You, too.”

Not that Cas probably _could_ go anywhere, but Dean was under no illusions that Cas came to them while having other available options. He’d come back because they were his only choice.

That hurt.

They’d been family. Cas was his best friend. Hell, Cas was-- Dean had wanted-- he’d _thought--_

It didn’t matter.

He pivoted and marched to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass and filling it with water, he retrieved one of Sam’s reusable cloth bags from the pantry, tossing in a couple bottles of water, aspirin, and the first aid kit from under the sink before he was back out the door hoping neither Sam or Cas were passed out on the floor.

Both were where he’d left them, though Sam was sitting on the table, head in his hands.

Setting his bounty down, Dean passed off the glass of water to Sam, following it with a couple of aspirin.

“Go to bed,” he ordered. “I’ll check on you in a bit once I finish with him.”

“Dean, I’m _fine_.”

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean warned. His brother raised his hand in surrender, pushing away from the table and taking his water with him. Eyes flicking over Cas’ form, Dean asked, “Can you make it to my room on your own?”

“I’m fine here,” was the response, “I just need--”

“ _Yes or no_ , Castiel,” he snapped.

Eyes clouded with pain blinked at him. “Yes.”

He nodded and turned away. “I’m going get the other medical supplies.”

It’s more an excuse than anything. A way to stall being left alone with him after… well, after. After Lucifer’s crypt and Naomi’s hold and Meg’s death and Cas’ flitting off rather than trusting Dean to help him.

Now Cas was back, but only because he had to, because he had no one else and nowhere else. Dean, idiot that he was, had been on the brink of spilling out truths and feelings like they might hold weight enough to break through, hell, might even be returned. At least he hadn’t said more than he did.

Cas’ immediate departure had been rejection speech enough. Message loud and clear. Dean had just been too stupid to pick up on it earlier.

_I know you’re hoping Castiel will return to you… I only wish he felt the same._

God, how long had he been making an absolute fool of himself that even angels-- freaking dickbag angels-- _pitied_ him?

In his room, Cas’ coat, jacket, and tie were dropped over the chair in the corner. The blood soaked into his ill-fitting dress shirt made Dean’s stomach sink through the floor like a crater, the way Cas curled his arms to himself like he was holding his insides in.

Whatever wound he sustained wasn’t one a human could have survived and Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know what happened even if he had to have the answer.

Cas was trying hard to meet his eye, apologetic, too-big and too-blue eyes giving Sam’s puppy-dog eyes a run for their money.

“Dean--”

“Take off your shirt and lay down,” he ordered, busying himself with his supplies. He tossed a water bottle on the bed near the angel before opening his own and taking a swig. Castiel took the hint and gingerly picked up his water, worrying it in one hand, gaze downcast. His other arm stayed wrapped around his middle. Dean noted it with narrowed eyes. “Your insides gonna become outsides if you let go?”

Mouth open, Cas seemed to search for the correct wording. “...the damage was extensive.”

The words hurt to hear and Dean had to suppress the wince that accompanied them. Reaching over, he unscrewed the lid and handed the bottle back so Cas could drink.

He reached into the bag again, turning with scissors in hand. “We cut off the shirt, then.”

The silence in the room was oppressive as Dean worked, the sound of the scissors and material too loud. Despite that, Dean couldn’t bring himself to break it, and Cas didn’t seem inclined to, either, though Dean thought it was because the effort of talking hurt.

Castiel obeyed the wordless gesture to lay down, pliant as Dean arranged his arms and carefully pulled the ruined shirt from his body in pieces. When he moved his arms out of the way so Dean could get to the wound, Dean had to look away and swallow down bile.

The main wound was bad enough, but as he cleaned away the blood, he could see where another was still in the process of healing, the skin a fresh scar of shiny pink.

“I was shot,” Cas explained.

Dean looked to the wound, big as a half-dollar coin and bigger than any weapon he knew of. He looked back at his face. “With _what_? A steel rod?”

“An angel bullet. Made from an angel sword.”

“Tch. Big ass bullet.”

Clouded eyes slid shut. “Regular-sized. I had to dig it out.”

Dean stared at him in horror, mouth working silently, before he shoved it aside to focus on the task at hand. A task that included cleaning around a gaping hole in Cas’ stomach and stitching him up. Focus on the task. Clean wounds and stitch skin, just like he’d done dozens of times.

Unable to help himself, he indicated the ragged hole in Cas’ stomach. “And what was this? An I-beam?”

“Crowley’s hand.” He stared at him, hands stilling and causing Cas to open his eyes, regarding him. “Stealing the tablet.”

“Stealing the--” He looked at the wound and back. “It was inside you? What did you do? Swallow it?”

“Something like that. It will heal, I’m just… weak.”

Scowling as he returned to cleaning blood from skin, Dean insisted, “Yeah, well, let’s see if we can’t help it along.”

He wasn’t as concerned with infection as he would have been were it anyone else, but that didn’t mean he slacked off on being as careful as possible, tried to empty his brain of thoughts and demands and accusations as he focused on tight, neat rows of stitching.

There was something to the idea of a human repairing an angel, keeping him from falling apart, something poignant, but he couldn’t think on it at the moment. Couldn’t think about that, about the atheist who’d befriended an angel, the way they’d fought side-by-side, and he couldn’t think about the way his feelings had changed through the years, how he’d stupidly thought he’d seen that change reflected in Castiel.

Seriously. The hunter-- the _atheist--_ and the angel.

God, his life was such a joke.

The silence was more than Cas could bear, apparently, or he was trying to distract himself from the pain, but, in clipped sentences, he detailed his efforts to hide his presence and the tablet from the angels and how they’d ultimately caught him.

The last of it was said through clenched teeth as Dean helped him sit up, anger and hurt boiling to the surface and making him bandage Cas’ stomach too tight. He had to take a minute, teeth clenched and jaw set, before continuing, mindful of his motions as he wound the gauze around and around Cas’ torso.

“Not gonna pretend to understand the metaphysics of that or how you managed, but it sounds exhausting. Surely you would have tired out. They could have just _waited_.”

Cas nodded, taking careful breaths, hands braced on the mattress. “My wings were-- are-- in bad shape. Between battles and no longer having anyone to help me keep them in proper shape-- well, work with what’s left of them anyway-- I was… struggling. It’s why I mostly stay in this form, but it also limits me.”

Dean’s hands stilled and he cocked his head. “Keep your wings in… I thought that was more, uh, metaphor.”

“Dean, you’ve seen my wings.”

“I’ve seen _shadows_ of wings,” he corrected as he began putting the medical supplies away. “‘Wave of celestial intent,’ or whatever. I figured part of your true shape was what we see _as_ wings, but actually isn’t. Especially not the feathers and all.”

“They are,” stated Cas. “Feathers and all. Mangled as they are.” He said it as though an afterthought, one tick of his brow as he tried to shift to a more comfortable sitting position, only to hiss in pain, face screwing up.

Dean looked at him over his shoulder. “What do you mean ‘mangled’? Cas, are you hurt somewhere I can’t see?”

Cas blinked at him, brows furrowing. “Yes, Dean, that’s what I said. Battles I’ve fought with demons and angels, killed and then revived, fighting against Naomi, banishing sigils, all of it. They’ve broken, but had no one to set them, so they heal improperly. They haven’t been preened or even allowed to rest. They’re overused and _hurt_. Like your weapons need tending and maintenance, so do wings. They're appendages, limbs. They can be used offensively and defensively, and angels are meant to be communal. The care and keeping was a bonding experience between close siblings or trusted Lieutenants in wartime.” He shook his head. “But I’m on my own.”

Dean glared at him, anger flaring to life. “Because you’re too much of a dumbass to ask for help or to just freaking _trust me_ , Cas, like what the hell, man? How many times do we have to go through this?” Cas flinched and looked away mouth opening, but Dean cut him off. “Y’know what? Forget it. Can you manifest your wings without blinding me?”

Castiel looked up with a start, eyes blinking rapidly. “What?”

“ _Wings_ , Castiel. Care and keeping or whatever. I sewed your insides in, I can help with this, too. Can you manifest them or not?” He crossed his arms, glaring. “No point in half-assing this by neglecting the rest of your injuries. You already said they’ve broken and healed wrong because you didn’t have anyone to help-- and you didn't come to us.”

“Dean, I’m sorry about that--”

“Yeah, that’s why you keep doing it. Yes or no, Castiel.”

Dean knew he was being an ass, especially given Castiel was injured like he was, but Dean was so angry and hurt himself it took everything not to yell and demand answers. Also, the shame of his horrendous misjudging of the situation just made it worse. And Cas is the cause of all of it. Using his full name was passive-aggressive, but helped remind Dean of the distance between them he’d been ignorant to.

Cas wanted to keep them as a last-ditch effort and allies? Fine. That was what Castiel would get.

“Yes,” he answered, not looking at him. “But you’ll need a prepared oil in order to help them heal and to groom them.”

Cas was hunched forward, arms and body suddenly trembling with pain, making Dean lurch forward, hands stretched to try and help when the lights flickered, black shadows expanding over the walls and making Dean step back.

Sweat blossomed on Cas’ brow, all color draining from his face as a sound like fabric ripping preceded the unfolding of massive black wings. Once manifested, the lights came back on and Castiel sat panting heavily, grimacing and sweating.

They were worse and more beautiful than Dean expected. He’s expected a ruffled bird, honestly. Comparing angels to birds was probably insulting, but it wasn’t like he had any other winged creature to compare them with.

They quivered with pain and exertion but weren’t ruffled. Feathers were missing and in disarray, sure, but ruffled was something that could easily be straightened into order. Ruffled was Cas’ hair when he ran his fingers through it in a display of stress and anxiety. These were… there were odd angles and knots where bones had broken and healed improperly. Feathers were missing as though pulled out by the handful. Some looked burned.

It was amazing Cas was even able to _fly_ with them.

They were no less magnificent and terrible for the poor shape that they were in. Dear God, no wonder angels and demons all seemed to know Castiel by name. He must have been a sight to behold on the battlefield.

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat, much of his anger ebbing at the sight of them. “What do I need to do?”

“Holy oil,” Cas panted. “Holy water. Powdered Frankincense. It’ll help… with the fatigue and pain.”

Nodding, Dean pulled a couple of pain pills from the first aid kit and handed them to him with the bottle of water. He should have thought to give them to him earlier, but honestly, he had no way of knowing if they would even work. “Take these while I go get that.” He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. “Anything else I can get that will help?”

Pulling the bottle away from his mouth, Cas angled his head, then looked at him. “I… don’t know. I’ve only ever treated them the traditional way, but it’s also an ancient way. And humans don’t ever do this, so… I honestly can’t answer that. This is unprecedented.”

Dean clicked his tongue. “The honor’s mine, then. I’ll be right back.”

He passed by Sam’s room on the way to the pantry where they kept their sundries and herbs. Popping in his head to ask if his brother needed anything, he faltered at the sight of Sam passed out fully clothed, face-down on top of his bed.

Sighing, he came closer, kneeling to remove Sam’s boots one at a time and setting them aside before carefully arranging his baby brother’s ungainly limbs onto the bed and covering him with the spare blanket.

No matter the amount of potential good closing the gates of hell might do, Dean wasn’t sure the ultimate cost was one he’d be willing to pay. If Sam was already sick and suffering from the trials, what would the final one do to him? Would he recover? Or would that be the price for protecting the planet, to sacrifice his health and well-being? What long-term damage would it do or do to his life expectancy?

He turned away, shutting the door behind him as he left. Worrying wouldn’t do him any good and certainly wouldn’t stop Sam when he’d made up his mind. Dean would just have to be there to pick up the pieces like he always did, carry his brother home and ensure he got better.

Part of him wondered if Sam’s willingness to close the gates of Hell, his mentality that the cost was worth the reward, wasn’t driven by the need to make up for Ruby. The Apocalypse was over, with Michael and Lucifer both locked up, but that didn’t mean the ghost of them didn’t linger. Dean saw it in the way that Sam hesitated taking the helm and deferred to Dean’s judgment more. He’d thought it would pass, that Sam’s bullheadedness would return with time and security of the familiar, but rather than butting-heads and locking horns like they use to, Sam just… followed Dean’s lead.

Just because it was easier on Dean to not fight with Sam so much didn’t mean it made him any less uneasy about it. And with time, he’d become less and less sure of how to address it. What was he supposed to do? Start throwing out reckless suggestions and when he finally had enough of Sam’s acquiescence, just snap at him, “Hey, fight with me on this!”

But there was always too much other stuff on Dean’s plate that allowing Sam to remain in a passive position was just _easier_. He couldn’t fight monsters, Heaven, Hell, and Sam all at the same time.

That was a failure on his part.

Snatching down bowl they used for most of their spell work, Dean grabbed bottles off the shelf, uncapping them and pouring. He watched with distance eyes as the holy oil and water rejected the other before a ripple rang through the liquid and the blended in a shimmer and swirl.

Reaching for the mortar and pestle, he dug out a handful of frankincense. Pursing his lips, he grabbed several other items, tossing them into the mortar to grind into a fine powder, before adding them to the bowl.

Following that, he carried the bowl of shimmering liquid to the other pantry with all their medical supplies, dumping a liberal amount of topicals to the mix and swirling it with his index finger, watching the way the liquid rippled and created a rainbow effect following the path of his finger.

When he returned to his room, he faltered in the doorway, caught short at the image he was presented with. Castiel, disrobed to the waist, shirt in tatters and cast aside, stomach wrapped in gauze and stitching, and wings. Massive, beautiful, worn out wings.

They matched the weariness he plainly saw on the angel’s expression.

“If you think you can keep it down, I can make you some tea to drink. It will help.” When Cas looked at him, he slid his gaze away, not wanting that intimate contact. “If you don’t mind ginger and honey.”

“I appreciate the thought. You’ve done enough already.” He shook his head. “I just need... I’m just _tired_. Exhausted, more like.”

Moving around to the other side of the bed, Dean set the bowl aside and let his gaze wander over his wings, assessing the task before him. “Yeah, well, and whose fault is that?”

Pushing up his sleeves, Dean placed a knee on the bed and dipped his hands into the bowl.

“You’re mad like most of this is my doing--”

“Enough of it _is_ , Castiel,” he snapped, ignoring the flip of his stomach he placed his hands on Cas’ back, smoothing the fragrant mixture over his skin. He worked it around the wing joints and over his shoulders, using the pads of his thumbs to massage the tension and knots from the strong muscles. He scowled. “And as mad as I am at you, trust me, I am just as mad at myself for being the dumbass to not realize where we stood.”

Cas tried to look at him over his shoulder, but Dean poked at his temple with index and middle finger so reminiscent of Castiel until he stared straight again. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“We were your last-ditch option,” he stated flatly. “Rather than come to us from the beginning, when you _had to have known_ something wasn’t right, even if you weren’t fully aware what it was, you could have come to us when things weren’t adding up or making sense, but no--”

“Dean--”

“And then when you finally do overcome whatever hold she has on you,” he continued, massaging the muscle under the wings, having not even touched them yet, “rather than coming clean about all of it, rather than sticking around for the mess we’re embroiled in-- which is also the same mess you’re mixed up in-- no, no. You leave. Again.” Cas’ head slumped forward. Dean wasn’t sure if it was guilt or his administrations working the tightness and knots from his back and shoulders. “So. Trying to close gates, keep everybody in their yards, protect humanity and a squirrelly prophet, we’re going up against Crowley and apparently an angel puppeteer, and we don’t have much clue what the tablets can even _do_ , but Heaven and Hell want them bad enough I’m inclined to make sure they don’t get them. And wow, yeah, today…” He let out a brittle laugh. “Today’s been _fun_. Accidentally find Meg, after thinking she was dead, and now she _is_ dead--”

Cas froze. Dean could have kicked himself. Unleashing on him was one thing, but that was an unintentional sucker punch.

“...Meg’s dead?”

Hesitating, Dean dipped his hands again and began working on the feathers closest to Cas’ back on one side. “Yeah. She kept Crowley busy so me and Sam could escape. She’s gone.” He focused on his hands carding through feathers, carefully coating them and arranging them until they gleamed. “Sorry you lost your girlfriend.”

A heavy sigh punched out of him. “I don’t know if you are being sincere or facetious and cruel because you are mad at me, but Meg and I were nothing more than… friends.” He swallowed. “We were opposites but were both soldiers who had defected and were alone. We were both incredibly old soldiers with the same weariness that comes with time and reflection.”

“I know you don’t pick up on subtle-- or even crude and blunt, in her case-- but Meg wanted to bang like a screen door in a storm.”

“Oh, of that, I am aware,” he said, and Dean saw his eyebrow quirk the way it did when he found something amusing. “She even said as much, were we to live through what was to come. ‘Rearrange some furniture’, I believe was the phrase.”

Dean rolled his eyes and thought he might throw up for entirely new reasons.

“It’s not that I never… _considered…_ her advances...”

“All due respect to the newly departed,” Dean cut in, “but you and her bumping uglies is a mental image I would go back to Hell again in order to _avoid_ , Castiel, and since I am trying to groom your wings, I don’t want to _throw up on them_ , so please curb that line of thought and remember that _oversharing_ is a thing.”

“I would want to be with someone out of _love_ rather than _loneliness_ is all I was going to say, Dean,” Cas huffed, slanting him a scowl over his shoulder. He looked away, voice soft. “It’s why I always turned her down.”

Setting his jaw, Dean tried several times to form a sentence to follow up on that, but failed and shook his head in frustration. “Cas, I can’t talk to you about… _that_ right now. I can’t. Pick another topic than the fact that of _all_ your dating options, _the only one you saw_ was the demon bitch I let live because the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Meg and I would have gone back to trying to kill each other the moment Crowley was dead.”

He sighed and made a hapless gesture with his hand. “What _do_ you want to talk about?”

Smoothing his hands to a new section of wing, he tapped two fingers to Cas’ shoulder while applying pressure. Castiel lowered it so Dean could continue working.

“Something _not_ about how you keep turning to a _demon_ rather than--” he choked off the words, teeth clenched and hands stilling. Forcing them down, he tried, “Let’s start with the more immediate concerns: Naomi.”

“Not Crowley?”

He snorted. “Having power, he wants to stay in power. I _know_ his agenda. How does _her_ mind work? What is she after? Since you don’t have the tablet, what is she gonna want with you now? What did she want before that she needed me dead for? Or is killing me just a perk?”

“Heaven blames you for much, Dean. You’re the one game piece they’ve never been able to control and you’ve made fools of them repeatedly.”

“So, revenge.” He snorted in disgust. “Great.”

“You influence and inspire, Dean,” Cas said, turning his head and sliding him a look from the corner of his eye. “She couldn’t control me, not fully, so long as I still had you. And no matter what I did, you would always be there to stop me-- and, therefore, her. And… _breaking me_ … was the one thing she couldn’t seem to do. Though I’ve no doubt it was something she enjoyed, it was also necessary. I never stopped fighting for control, which was damaging to me and exhausting for her-- to keep having to… _recalibrate_ and start over.” He nodded. “And, yes, I suppose she would get a sadistic glee out of having _me_ finally kill you-- the real you.”

“What do you mean?”

The wings shifted, pulled up and in, making Dean angle to try and catch a glimpse of whatever was on Cas’ face, but he kept his head turned away.

“I killed you, Dean.” He swallowed and his wings relaxed again. Dean continued grooming them best he could. “...Thousands of times, she made me kill you.”

“ _T-thousands_?”

“If I refused or fought, I was reprimanded-- tortured-- and dragged back to her office and we ‘started over’. Eventually, I lost ground and she gained more control. She had _complete_ control and she knew it, so she sent me after you.”

“Okay, well, then she didn’t have control--”

“She did, Dean,” he argued. “That’s how this works. Like the flipping of a switch, I was me until suddenly I was hers, but with the built-in feature of not questioning it, the way my mind just… glazed over, the way her programming just… infected me.”

“Cas... you stopped. You didn’t obey-- and then you ran off with what she was after.” He arranged pin feathers, swallowing when one came away in his hand. He set it aside. “I’d say that’s pretty damn defiant.”

“She says I’m broken. I’ve never obeyed the way I was supposed to. Apparently, I can’t even ‘die right’.” He looked down, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his other hand. “She plays mind games. You don’t know who is telling the truth: your memories or her.”

Dean looked at him, brows furrowed. “Then how did you break free? If she had her claws that deep.”

Cas shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure ‘how’, but I know the difference was as obvious as it was simple, and she hadn’t prepared for that.”

“What difference?”

Lines and shadows under his eyes, Cas looked at him. “It was _you_ , Dean. That’s what was different.”

Dragging his gaze away, Dean shook his head against the thought. As much as he wanted it to be the truth, had been banking on it when he’d been ready to spill out truths that would have only shown what a fool he was…

“Can’t be,” he argued, voice gruff and uneven. “I’m not special.”

“... _we_ are,” Cas countered softly.

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, Dean looked at the far wall as his eyes pricked and stung with longing and hurt. Castiel didn’t mean the words the way they sounded. Didn’t mean them the way Dean wanted him to mean them.

They weren’t special. Not really.

Dean would forgive him for everything right then if Cas said they were.

He reached for the next section of wing. “No, Cas, we aren’t. If we were, you would have tried to come to me sooner. You wouldn’t have _run_ rather than trusting me-- trusting us-- to help you. You wouldn’t _keep_ doing it like this. You run _from me_ , but hey, _demons_ , that’s a whole nother ball field--”

“You aren’t being fair--”

“ _I am being angry, Cas_!” he roared. Castiel flinched. “I am being angry about being lied to and disappointed and _hurt_. Again.” His voice dropped and trembled with words he _still_ \-- after everything-- wanted to spill out. “How many times am I supposed to let you in when it’s so easy for you to walk away?”

In the lapse of silence, Dean returned to his wings.

Because that was what hurt most. Cas didn’t trust Dean, considered demons as better allies and even potential lovers, but worst-- probably because it felt so in-pattern with the rest of his life-- was how easy it was for Cas to just walk away.

How did Dean keep failing people he cared about? How was he suppose to fix it if he didn’t even know what it was? Or was it just _him_? What about him made it so easy for people to cut him out and leave him behind?

The wing shifted as he finished with it and Dean looked at Cas to gauge his reaction or work on any problem areas that needed more attention, but Cas wasn’t looking at his wing. He was looking at Dean, sorrow molding his features and looking so miserable and exhausted Dean struggled to hold onto the anger slipping through his fingers.

“Thank you,” he said. His wing twitched in emphasis, feathers rustling. “For this.”

Swallowing down his pride and hurt, Dean trailed his fingers over the wing to settle it on Cas’ shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“That’s what friends are for,” Dean sighed.

The ointment and oil must have been working because the muscles weren’t as tense beneath his hand.

Cas reached up, covering Dean’s hand with his own. Blue eyes found his, mouth open and lips trying to form words he couldn’t seem to say, before dragging his gaze away.

“I run to keep you safe,” he whispered. “I turn to others for the same reason. You already have too much on your shoulders, and my burdens and past never stop chasing me. The angels have never and _will never_ forgive me for capital crimes against them, more than the angels I’ve killed, the transgression they hate me the _most_ for and have _tortured_ me the most for…” their eyes met, “is you.” Dean swallowed and Cas seemed to lose his nerve, dragging his gaze away, hand falling from Dean’s. “My… _affections_ are the one thing they will never let go. Whether it’s Leviathan, demons, or angels: if their primary target is always on the move, _you_ can’t get caught in the crossfire. Neither can Sam.”

Lowering his gaze, Dean gave Cas’ shoulder a squeeze, thumb brushing over the hair at the nape of his neck for want of something to say. What could he say? Castiel’s reasons didn’t make them right or undo the hurt, but it did, at least, offer a measure of clarity.

He said nothing as he withdrew his hand, dipping both into the bowl to begin again on the other wing.

Neither of them spoke again after that. There wasn’t much else to say. Dean’s mind was still turning over what he’d learned, even as he arranged feathers and massaged tendons, carefully placing each loose and damaged feather to the side in a growing pile.

Cas didn’t seem keen on breaking the quiet. At first, his shoulders slumped as tension was slowly released, then as his head bowed, face peaceful.

For a moment, Dean thought he was meditating, maybe focusing on making his injuries heal faster, but as his wings drooped, long, black feathers settling further on the floor with each deep, steady breath, Dean realized he’d fallen asleep. From exhaustion and pain and finally being able to _stop_ , knowing he was safe. He didn’t know anything about angel wings, but he thought the care and grooming of them might have had something to do with it as well.

Moving, Dean laid down the pillow propped against his headboard and grabbed the other one, loop an arm around Cas, his other hand on his shoulder.

“Cas.” He jerked a little, eyes fluttering around behind his lids. “Can you lay on your side? Here. Hold this pillow to support your stomach. Yeah, just lay on your side like that.”

He didn’t think Castiel had even woken up for that and it made him feel even worse.

He considered the wing he’d already finished with, not sure whether it was best to leave it stretched out as Cas had it or to fold it up instead, or if that might wake Cas from his much-needed rest.

Finally, he decided to fold it out of the way, so as to not risk putting any added strain on it. Once he’d done it, mindful to sure not to wake Cas, he went back to working on the other wing and continued until every inch and feather was properly coated and arranged to the best of his ability. Because of the way Castiel was laying on his side, it was easier to leave the wing stretched as it was.

Task accomplished, he felt no better for the task itself, but knowing it might help keep Cas alive. Maybe, depending on whatever the future held, Cas might come to him for help with his wings in the future. Dean wasn’t an angel, so he wasn’t sure if it held any significance Cas would allow his help in this, but it felt like a step toward mending at least some small part of whatever was broken between them.

He checked in on Sam again (still passed out) before heading to the pantry. He carefully put all of Cas’ feathers into an airlocked glass canister, then filled an ornate ewer with the remnants of the bowl. With reverent care, he set it on a shelf with a small label card. ‘For Cas’.

Once he washed his hands and changed into his pajamas, he grabbed the cot out of storage and the pillow from Cas’ room and made his bed for the night on the floor next to Cas.

If Castiel needed him in the night, he wanted to be there.

And if Cas woke up and decided to run… well, Dean didn’t want to make it easy.

 

Dean woke first, stirred from sleep by what he thought was the sound of his name.

He blinked up at the ceiling-- too far away-- and tried to figure out how he’d ended up on the floor-- wait, no, _cot_. A cot _beside_ his bed rather than in it.

Movement drew his gaze down, brain slow to provide words and context for what he was seeing. Instead, his eyes trailed up the large black feathers, connected them to the word ‘wing’ and then, “Cas.”

The angel didn’t stir at his name, face still peaceful in sleep. The wing Dean had carefully folded was now draped over him almost like a blanket.

Smiling, Dean relented and stroked his fingers idly through the black mass, all but petting Cas were it not for the carefully probing fingers mapping the most problematic areas, smiling wider he could tell the swelling and strain was gone.

The reduction of pain, that relief, was probably why Cas was sleeping as well as he was.

Given that angels didn’t sleep unless in extreme situations and under duress, Dean forced himself to get out of bed, carefully removing the cot and all evidence of his night on the floor by Cas’ side.

Things weren’t fixed between _them_ , yet… even if they were more on their way than Dean wanted to admit.

He felt he should be angrier at himself, to keep forgiving Cas like he did, to keep letting him in when he had so much power to tear Dean apart, but for all his gruffness and bark, love and loyalty were always what led Dean.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure if that guide wasn’t really a collar or noose in disguise.

It chafed and left him sore some days, left him licking his wounds others, but whatever it was, most days he thought it a burden worth being tasked with carrying.

Having showered and changed, Dean checked in on his brother and retrieved a glass of orange juice, getting to his room in time to see Cas’ broad, exposed back as he retrieved his remade shirt and slipped into it with care.

“I take it that healed well,” he wondered, nodding to the missing bandages when Cas looked at him over his shoulder. The war conflicting in his eyes, then the guilt as blue eyes fell, made Dean’s stomach twist and fall. He lifted a brow. “Leaving so soon?”

Turning to regard him, Cas nodded. “It is necessary.”

Fingers tight around his glass, Dean wanted to snap at him it had been necessary to sew Cas’ insides in after a hand was shoved through his stomach by the very people hunting him. _That_ had been necessary.

Instead, he focused on a shiny pink scarring disappearing behind fastened buttons. With time, those would finish healing until nothing remained.

“What happens next time?” Castiel looked at him, brows knitting. “Next time they set a trap or your wings get tired or you don’t have what it takes to keep running and they catch up to you. What happens then?”

His gaze fell. “I don’t know.”

They both knew, though neither of them wanted to say it.

“Why not stay?”

“You know why,” Cas countered. “It’s safer for you- for Sam- if I leave. Besides,” he shook his head, “I have to find a way to help my siblings--”

“They are trying to _kill_ you, Cas!”

“How many of them don’t have a _choice_?”

Dean flinched and scowled at his mostly-gone orange juice.

Any angel that could be saved from Naomi deserved to be, more, Cas deserved that, to liberate angels from the same control she’d held over him, perhaps it would help heal his traumas in the process.

It didn’t make it any easier for Dean to accept. Not when it was Cas going where Dean couldn’t follow.

Tie and suit jacket on, Cas reached for his coat. “...now that I can, I’ll… I’ll check in more often.” Blue eyes found Dean’s. “Drop by.” He said it like a sentence, but the question was obvious in the lilt at the end, the way his eyes shuttered.

Dean nodded. “You can always come home, Cas.” He forced a smile that didn’t feel as reassuring as he meant. “That’s why they call it ‘home’.”

 _So stop running away from it_ , he thought.

Trenchcoat on, Cas ran his hands over his front and patted his pockets looking around if he’d left anything. Not that he had anything to leave behind, but Dean appreciated the stall technique for what it was.

Cas didn’t want to go any more than Dean wanted him to, but like much of what they did every day, there was no one else to do what needed to be done.

“Stay for coffee, at least?”

Cas smiled, genuine and soft and sad. It said more than he needed to, so Dean wasn’t as bitter and disappointed as he might have been when he answered, “I’ll take a raincheck. For when I check back in.”

Mouth twisted as he nodded and tried to find words, Dean said, “Imma hold you to that, Cas.” Opening his mouth, Cas clicked it shut and slid his hands into his pockets. Dean cut him off before he had the chance to say goodbye. “Just come home safe.”

A single nod. “Understood.”

Dean wasn’t looking at him with he disappeared but was just as aware of the moment when it happened as if he had been.

The glass shattered in his grip.

Dean stared blankly down at the mess and the unmarred skin of his palm.

He walked away. “Just come home,” he pleaded.

He didn’t see the glass, now whole, sitting on the nightstand like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please be kind and properly feed and water your fanwork creators via way of comments and kudos. Knowing time wasn't wasted means a great deal.


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